


all your well-earned politesse

by fatal_drum



Series: sympathy for the devil [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Anal Sex, Dirty Talk, Hand Feeding, Lukas child-rearing techniques, M/M, Mild Sugar Daddy Kink, Mild Verbal Humiliation, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, Peter Lukas is a disaster, Peter is still a monster, Praise Kink, Rimming, creepy courtship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-05-07 19:15:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19215787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fatal_drum/pseuds/fatal_drum
Summary: Peter has been watching Martin for a long time. At first he thinks his interests stems from the scent of loneliness clinging to him like perfume, but loneliness is common enough in a city of millions. Perhaps it's the way Martin saw through him the moment they met.It most certainly can't be anything else.





	all your well-earned politesse

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks again to [@cuttooth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuttooth/pseuds/cuttooth) for their marvelous beta skills! <3 I highly recommend their fics, because they are _marvelous_. And thanks also to everyone who commented and encouraged me on the first fic. I adore you all. <3
> 
> Now with fabulous [fanart](https://tanis-drawings-2point0.tumblr.com/post/186100920600/fataldrum-writes-a-petermartin-fic-where-peter) by [Tani](https://tanis-drawings-2point0.tumblr.com/)!

Peter had been watching Martin for quite some time.

It was rare for someone to catch his attention, rarer still to hold it. Peter had savored the aroma of solitude on Martin during their first meeting, but it wasn’t enough to hold his interest. Solitude was nothing special in London, not in a city large enough to drown in. It was easy to be alone amongst millions, sinking slowly beneath waves of shallow companionship.  

Perhaps Peter’s fascination stemmed from how quickly Martin saw through him; most people were much slower to catch on, unable to explain the unease they felt in his presence. Even servants of the Eye could be fooled by his wire-rimmed glasses and the kind smile pasted to his lips. So accustomed to watching from afar, they rarely noticed the threat in front of them.

Martin’s clumsy attempts to drive him off had been charming, like a kitten with its hackles up, threatening him with a knife as if Peter couldn’t see his weapons consisted solely of a teacup and a tape recorder.

Peter had taken to watching him after that first encounter, haunting the corridors of the Institute between meetings with Elias. He’d followed him as he went about his day, watching him make tea tea and do his best to hold his little would-be family together against the odds. Martin’s fear had been sharp on Peter’s tongue, each sip a meal of its own.

 _You know the staff are off-limits,_ Elias had chided. Would Elias’s answer have changed, had he known it was Martin who would cage him? Watching Martin’s little _coup d'état_ had filled Peter with pride.

There was no question, then, of who he would claim as his assistant. It pleased him to watch Martin scurry about the Institute, busy with whatever small tasks Peter assigned him. Peter enjoyed watching him frown at his computer screen, absently tapping his pen against his mouth. Occasionally he would bring it between his lips, sucking gently, and Peter had to restrain himself from reaching to replace the pen with his fingers.

In his younger years, Peter might have bent the boy over his desk without ceremony, taking his due from Martin’s eager flesh. He saw the way Martin watched him, the blushing glances when Peter pushed his sleeves up his thick forearms, or when he unbuttoned his collar. He could ruin Martin Blackwood for other men, and delight in doing so.

For now, Peter was content to wait, and wait he did. In the meantime,  he took his pleasure in smaller things.

Gifts, for instance. Martin always reacted as if he’d never received a gift and didn’t know what to do with it. The flush of embarrassment and pleasure sat beautifully on his cheeks as he opened the wrapping and saw the proof of Peter’s regard, though he would tell himself Peter was simply being polite.

The first gift was purchased on a whim, with no thought to Martin’s reaction. Martin had been complaining about a pen Peter stole, so Peter presented him with a new one—engraved with his name and job title, in case it was ever lost. The pen had cost more than Martin’s paycheck, though Peter saw no need to inform him of that fact.

Martin turned the pen over in his hands, admiring the balance of it, the gleaming black finish. “This is much nicer than my biro,” he said hesitantly.

“Is it?” Peter asked.

“Peter, I can’t take this.”

“It’s not as if I can give it back. Unless there’s another Martin Blackwood out there who needs an ink pen.” Peter shot him a winning smile, enjoying the way it made Martin flush a deeper pink.

“Th-thank you, Peter,” Martin said. “I—I suppose this makes up for you stealing my biro.”

“I was losing sleep over it,” Peter said, clapping Martin on the shoulder. “Here, you can celebrate with these requisition forms.”

Martin only rolled his eyes for a moment when Peter handed over the paperwork. As he read, his fingers absently stroked the smooth metal shaft of the pen, and soon the end of it disappeared between his lips.

Peter smiled.

* * *

 Martin’s coat offended Peter. It was an old and threadbare monstrosity, hanging loosely and concealing the shape of what Peter found to be a considerably appealing backside. The cuffs were frayed and drooped far past his wrists.

It was with no small pleasure that Peter “accidentally” spilled a pot of ink over it, ruining both the coat and the worn t-shirt beneath. Martin swore quietly, then blushed.

“I’ve got a spare shirt you can borrow,” Peter offered.

“I—are you sure? I can’t promise I won’t spill tea on it or something.”

Martin blotted uselessly at the stain with a paper towel, frowning.

“Clearly I’m more of a danger to shirts than you are. I’ll just pop over and grab it for you, yeah?”

Martin was not a small man, but Peter was larger. The shirt hung enticingly off his shoulders, showing more of his chest than was usual. Peter helped him roll the sleeves up so he could use his hands.

“I’ll replace the coat immediately,” Peter promised.

“I don’t—”

“Shush. What kind of boss would I be if I destroyed your property without recompense?” Peter raised an eyebrow challengingly, watching Martin wilt under his gaze.

“I suppose—but are you _sure?”_

“Quite,” said Peter.

He spent the rest of the morning poring over men’s clothing sites, making notes of which items to save for later, which colors would look best on his sweet young assistant. Martin was already more comfortable with color than most men his age, if the pink trainers were anything to go by.

In the end, he settled on a Burberry coat in a deep plum color he thought would bring out the auburn in Martin’s hair. It stopped just short of the model’s hips, with two prim rows of buttons down the front and a thick belt at the waist. The inside was lined with a delicate floral print. He ordered it without a second thought, and it was hand-delivered within hours.

Martin’s hands trembled as he opened the box, brushing aside the delicate paper. His fingers grazed the soft wool before returning for a long stroke. He paused.

“Here, try it on,” Peter urged, lifting the coat and holding it open.

Martin gave him a long look before turning around, letting Peter slide it over his shoulders.

The fit was impeccable, and it looked just as good as he’d imagined, highlighting Martin’sbroad shoulders and generously curved arse. Peter ran an appreciative hand down Martin’s chest, dusting off imaginary lint.

“Peter, this is too nice,” Martin babbled. “I can’t accept this. I got that coat second-hand. Possibly third.”

“Martin, you represent the Institute. And when you represent the Institute, you represent _me._ If anything, this is a gift for me.”

Martin bit his lip, fidgeting with the smooth fabric of his sleeve. Peter was already contemplating how the silk lining would look against Martin’s bare skin.

“Th-thank you, Peter.”

“It’s no problem at all,” Peter said with a wink, enjoying the way it made Martin’s eyes widen.

* * *

 “Would you like some takeaway? I’m afraid I ordered too much.”

Martin looked up from the array of documents he’d amassed on his desk, wild-eyed and more than a bit exhausted. “Beg your pardon?”

 _“Food,_ Martin. When’s the last time you ate?”

Seven hours, Peter knew. He’d seen him munching on a scone earlier that morning, and Martin had barely left his desk since then.

Martin’s confused frown gave Peter all the excuse he needed to push his way into Martin’s office, pulling up a battered chair. He made a mental note to have the furniture upgraded; after all, he intended to spend a fair amount of time there. Martin would make such a pretty picture with his plum coat and his wavy hair, nestled amongst elegant Victorian furnishings.

“God, that smells good,” Martin sighed. “Are you sure?”

“No, I’d rather just bin the extra,” Peter said, placing the boxes on Martin’s desk. They were so hot they nearly burned his hands, and the scents of ginger and garlic wafted up as he opened them.

“What is all this?”

“Glass noodles,” Peter said, pointing. “Marinated beef; some sort of fish cake; cucumber kimchi; dumplings… these are kimbap, sort of like Korean sushi.”

Martin’s stomach growled loudly, and Peter handed him chopsticks, waiting for him to take the first bite. Martin opened them carefully, staring down at the utensils with dread before cracking them open. He had just begun trying to work out how to hold them before Peter relented and handed him a fork.

“Thank you,” Martin said, flushing.

Peter watched him spear a bite of bulgogi, knowing what he would taste: the sweet sauce balanced with the richness of beef, grilled to perfection. Martin moaned softly, eyes closed in bliss.

 _“God,_ this is good,” Martin said, immediately reaching for another bite. “I think I’m dying.”

“Not before you’ve finished those HR forms, you’re not,” Peter teased.

Martin rolled his eyes, but the corners of his lips lifted a bit as he ate.

“You really should take better care of yourself,” Peter said.

Martin’s eyes narrowed, and he set down his fork. “Why? So I’ll make a better meal for your god?”

“Is it such a stretch to think I’d care about you?” Peter asked, raising his brows.

“Since when do you care about anybody?” Martin snapped.

“Does it make you happy? Caring?”

“What?”

“Has caring been of _any_ benefit to you?” Peter asked, leaning in close to savor the expressions unfolding across Martin’s face. “Has it made you happier? Has it saved any of your friends?”

Peter smiled slowly. “Or has it dragged you further into a war you’ll never understand? Each day bringing you one step closer to becoming the next casualty.”

Martin was staring blankly ahead of him, breathing erratically. He’d bitten his lip so hard the skin was blanched, and loneliness rolled off him in waves so strong and sweet that Peter licked his lips.

“Answer me, Martin,” Peter said. “Tell me what caring has done for you lately.”

Martin finally seemed to come back to himself, pushing his chair away to stand.

“Fuck you, Peter,” he said shakily. “I’m taking a break.”

With that, Martin left, not even bothering to shut the door behind him. Peter popped a dumpling into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully.

* * *

 Few people stayed in Peter’s life for any length of time.

His father, he supposed, though he’d preferred to let the servants do the work of rearing him and his siblings. His mother had fled as soon as Anya was born. Sometimes he spared a thought to the woman who’d borne him, the woman who’d given him her square jaw and coarse waves of hair. Perhaps she’d settled somewhere and started another family, one she could love. Perhaps his father’s god had finally caught up with her. He’d toyed with the idea of finding out, but had dismissed it each time.

Moorland House sat on a sprawling estate, large enough to lose oneself in. He could wander for days without encountering another soul, the servants trained to disguise their presence so thoroughly he could imagine the house was staffed by ghosts. Some contact had been necessary, particularly with the tutors.

Peter had tolerated most of the tutors. Many had been academics who’d failed to thrive in their fields, resenting the fact that they’d been brought so low as to teach _children._ A few had been touched by other gods: the geologist who bore the damp-earth scent of the Too Close I Cannot Breathe; the Latin tutor who had looked to the empty sky with a look of such longing Peter nearly opened the window himself. That one hadn’t lasted long. None of them had.

His father had a knack for sensing when Peter grew too close, no matter how he tried to hide behind curt words and neglected assignments. His father sensed the encroachment of sentiment like a foul odor on Peter’s skin, or the tingle of electricity.

Tadeas was an exception, though not much of one. He was a hardy sailor, quiet and efficient, serving their god with all the cold fervor of a Lukas. There was no danger of growing attached to him. Peter may as well have grown attached to a garden spade, or a bosun’s whistle.

At first his appreciation of Martin was merely aesthetic. Peter enjoyed the gleam of his auburn hair, the plump curve of his backside. His fear, his anxiety, his longing all kept Peter well-fed.

It was when Martin called in sick that Peter knew something was off.

 _So sorry, Mr. Lukas,_ he’d texted. _I promise I’ll make it up tomorrow._

 _rest up, lad. c u tomorrow :),_ Peter typed, following the message with a series of emojis:  a teacup, a bed, a steaming bowl of soup, and a thumbs up. He knew his texting habits rankled Martin, and it amused him to picture his assistant scowling at his phone from bed.

Rosie had cheerfully taken on Martin’s more mundane duties, so his absence wasn’t a great inconvenience. The office ran nearly as efficiently as it did on a normal day.

Around two o’clock, Peter began to grow restless. He’d already prowled the halls more than once, popping into the Archives to watch Martin’s pet librarian have a minor existential crisis. Dull.

He spent the next hour skimming through news sites, which quickly devolved into browsing men’s fashion sites. Plush jumpers that would hug Martin’s broad shoulders before plunging down past his throat. Trousers that would emphasize his generous hips. A silver bracelet with a flowing filigree pattern like waves. Peter scowled and shut his laptop hard.

He’d already made up his mind to leave early when he stumbled across a woman exiting the archives. Her hair was a disheveled mess, and her clothes needed washing. She looked up at him with hope in her weary eyes. The scent of loneliness was mouth-wateringly pungent.

“Do you know the way out of here?” she asked.

Peter smiled slowly. “I do.”

* * *

 The next morning was uneventful. Martin came in looking paler than usual, but he caught up with commendable speed. Peter greeted him with a cool nod, handing him a stack of unfinished forms, and Martin disappeared into his work.

He spent the morning in pleasurable anticipation, wondering how long it would take for word of his misdeeds to spread. Or if they’d spread at all. The archival staff weren’t always as clever as they liked to think.

He was rewarded at half three by Martin storming into his office with a statement in his hand and a scowl on his round face.

“Peter,” he gritted out. “Do you know anything about Miss Griffith?”

“Can’t say the name rings any bells,” Peter said honestly. “Why, is she a friend of yours?”

“It seems Miss Griffith was seen exiting the archive around two pm. She was not, however, seen leaving the _building._ I know, I checked the cameras.”

“That’s strange.”

“Yes,” Martin growled. “Especially since she was giving a statement about an encounter at _Moorland House.”_

Peter allowed the slow, lazy smile to curve his lips, delighting in how it made Martin flush with anger.

“Tell me what you did!” Martin shouted.

Peter rose from his desk, stalking into Martin’s space until he was forced to take a step back, then another, until he was blocked in by the chair. Peter stood so close Martin had to crane his neck to look at him. He could feel the heat of Martin’s body through his clothes.

“What exactly do you think I am, Martin?” he asked.

“I…”

“Do you think I’m a _nice_ man? Hmm?” Peter raised an eyebrow. “Or perhaps your tame monster?”

Martin trembled, breathing hard through parted lips, though his gaze didn’t waver from Peter’s.

“We _all_ feed our gods, Martin, one way or another. Willingly or no.”

Peter cupped Martin’s chin in his hand, leaning close. “You can pretend you’re not on the side of monsters if you like. You’re good at that. But me? I _enjoy_ what I am.”

Their faces were inches apart, so close their breath mingled. Martin’s breath hitched as Peter’s gaze dropped from his eyes to his mouth, but he didn’t pull away.

Finally Peter released him, stepping back to lean against his desk.

“Is there anything else you wanted to ask me about?” he asked.

Martin shook his head mutely.

“Right. Be a dear and close the door behind you, eh?”

Peter winked, and Martin scurried away to his office.

* * *

 It was easy to replace the furniture in Martin’s office with the elegant handmade pieces Peter preferred. He could imply the purchases came from the Institute’s own budget, and Martin could pretend to believe him.

When Martin’s battered pink trainers began to come apart at the soles, a new pair appeared on his desk in the same size and color, but a brand Martin could never afford. They went well with the designer jeans, replacements for ones Martin lost to an unexpected spill.

Peter delighted in taking his assistant out to lunch at the finest restaurants in London, watching his expression as he sampled each dish. Martin’s face was so open, so honest, that Peter could read him like a book. He knew when Martin liked something, and when he only pretended to like it. He knew when Martin wanted a second helping but was afraid to ask. Martin no longer reached for his wallet when they dined out, and his protests grew more perfunctory with each gift. Peter certainly never expected repayment, which was why he was surprised to arrive into Martin’s office to see two packages on his desk.

“What’s all this, then?” he asked.

“Why don’t you find out?”

Intrigued, Peter untied the glossy ribbon on the first box, opening the lid to reveal a small, perfectly formed cheesecake. _Sernik,_ Martin called it, before inviting him to open the next.

Inside the second package was a surprisingly familiar book. Peter laughed. _“The Rime of the Ancient Mariner._ How did you know?”

“It, erm. Seemed appropriate,” Martin said awkwardly.  

“What’s the occasion?” Peter asked.

“It’s—it’s your birthday, isn’t it?”

Was it? Peter thought for a long moment. He rarely thought about the day, aside from filling in the odd form.

“I suppose it is!” he said. “Thank you for remembering, Martin.”

Martin’s brow creased as he asked, “Don’t people...get you birthday gifts?”

“Not generally, no. It’s not something the Lukases are known for.”

It was an obvious fact, and not anything worth getting worked up over, but Martin’s face twisted oddly. Suddenly Martin launched himself at Peter, burying his face in Peter’s chest. After an awkward moment, Peter wrapped his arms around him. Martin’s body was warm and plush, and while he wasn’t a small man, he fit perfectly in Peter’s embrace.

“Martin, what are you...?”

“Shut up,” Martin said.

Smiling, Peter obeyed. He found himself stroking Martin’s back, enjoying the way he arched into the touch, until his hands settled just over Martin’s hips. Martin looked up at him. It was far too easy, then, to cup Martin’s chin and claim his mouth in a gentle kiss. His lips were soft and pliant, parting instinctively for him.

“You’re such a sweet thing,” Peter said against his mouth. “I could just eat. You. _Up.”_

Martin shivered deliciously, and Peter traced a finger over his plush lower lip.

“Come home with me,” he whispered.  

Peter watched the expressions cross Martin’s face, desire warring with apprehension, loneliness with wariness.

“I’d like that,” Martin said finally.

They kissed again, longer and deeper, before Peter finally took them home.

Peter pushed open the door to his flat, gesturing Martin through with a bow. Martin’s eyes were wide as he took it all in.

“Make yourself at home. I’ll just pop into the kitchen.” He brushed a kiss against Martin’s neck, savoring the way it made him shudder.

It took a few moments to find the cutlery. He didn’t spend much time in the kitchen, preferring to have his meals discreetly delivered. The wine was easier to locate, a tart riesling he suspected would pair excellently with the dessert.

Martin was perched awkwardly on the edge of the sofa when Peter returned. Peter sat down right next to him, throwing an arm over his shoulders. Martin relaxed slightly, leaning against him.

“Only one fork?” he asked.

“You’re going to be reading to me, remember?”

Martin took the book and opened it with reverent hands, as Peter speared a bite directly from the cake, not bothering to cut or plate it.

“Are you sure? I’m not very good.”

“Whose birthday is it? Yours?”

Martin relented, and Peter took a bite. He groaned aloud; it was perfectly creamy, rich and sweet with just enough tartness. Martin’s eyes widened slightly.

“Would you like some?”

At Martin’s nod, Peter held the fork to his lips, waiting for him to open them. Martin’s gaze held his as his lips closed around the morsel. He clearly had no idea what he sounded like as he moaned around the treat, a sound that made Peter crave other things.

“Go on, then,” Peter said, gesturing to the open book.

 _“The Rime of the Ancient Mariner,”_ Martin read. “How a Ship having passed the Line was driven by storms to the cold Country towards the South Pole...”

Peter let the words wash over him as he opened the wine, pouring it into the single glass he’d brought. The first sip brought a wave of cool sweetness down his throat.

“Would you like a taste?” Peter asked.

Martin stopped, nodding, and Peter lifted the glass to his mouth. Martin opened for him obediently.

“That’s...very good,” he said, licking his lips.

Peter dipped his fingers directly into the cake, scooping up a bite and bringing it once more to Martin’s mouth. Their eyes met once more, gaze never breaking as Peter fed him, fingertips brushing against his lips. He could feel Martin’s breath against his skin.

“Silly me,” Peter said. “I’ve made a mess, with no way to clean it up.”

Martin’s tongue flicked out to clean the pads of his fingers. Peter pushed two digits into his mouth, and Martin sucked gently, exploring each crevice with his clever tongue. He continued until long after Peter’s hand was clean.

“What a wicked mouth you have,” Peter murmured.

“Is that a complaint?”

“Only if you don’t put it to good use.”

He reached out to pull Martin until he rested in Peter’s lap, and then kissed him again. The position gave him perfect access to Martin’s body, letting him slide his hands through his hair, down his back, and onto his plump and perfect arse. Martin groaned into his mouth.

“I want to see what that wicked mouth feels like on my cock,” Peter whispered hotly. “Then I want to eat your sweet little arse, and fuck you until you forget your own name. How’s that sound?”

Martin whimpered, burying his face in Peter’s shoulder. Peter nipped at his throat.

“Well?”

“Y-yes, please,” Martin said, blushing to the roots of his hair.

Peter grinned. “On your knees, then.”

Martin looked good kneeling on Peter’s carpet, gazing up at him with a mix of desire and trepidation. Peter locked eyes with him as he opened his belt and lowered his zip.

“You’ve no idea how often I’ve thought about doing this at my desk,” Peter said, freeing his cock with a relieved sigh. Martin’s gaze followed his hands, and he flushed an even deeper pink, eyes wide.

“More than you were expecting?” he asked.

Martin nodded, licking his lips. Peter planted a hand in his hair, pulling him closer, until the tip of his cock brushed Martin’s cheek. Martin’s eyes slid closed, and he shuddered.

“There’s a lad,” he said encouragingly, running his fingers through Martin’s silky hair.

Martin turned to mouth the head of his cock, brushing kisses down the shaft, nuzzling down to the base before licking his way up again with small, sweet swipes of his tongue. Peter growled deep in his throat as Martin teased the crown with his lips.   

“Not so shy now, are we?” Peter asked, cupping Martin’s cheek. He slid his hand back into his hair, gripping hard. “I think we can do better.”

Martin moaned, lips parting eagerly as Peter guided him onto his cock with a sigh of relief. Martin’s mouth was wet and perfect, and he looked so lovely with his lips wrapped around the shaft.

“You’re being so good for me,” Peter encouraged. “I knew you would. You’ve the mouth of a born cocksucker—those plush lips, that perfect little mouth. I’m surprised Elias never had you on your knees.”

Then Martin did something particularly clever with his tongue, and Peter stopped talking, savoring the slick heat of his mouth, and the small, filthy sounds he made. Peter didn’t need to look down to know Martin was hard for him, down there on his knees, just from enjoying Peter’s cock on his tongue. It pleased him to find his lovely assistant was so much dirtier than he’d hoped.

Before things could progress too far, Peter pulled Martin off him. His lips were swollen and shiny with spit, and he had the most darling pout on his face, like a child denied a favorite toy. Peter had no choice but to kiss him, tasting his own musk mixed with the faint sweetness of the wine and cake.

“You’d look so lovely stretched across my sheets,” Peter whispered. “Why don’t you come to bed?”

Pulling Martin to his feet, he led him into the bedroom. He paused to kiss him at the foot of the bed. His slick cock rubbed against Martin’s denim-clad thigh, just this side of too rough.

“These clothes of yours are inconvenient,” Peter chided, sliding his hands up under Martin’s shirt.

Martin shivered at the contact, lifting his arms obediently as Peter pulled at his shirt. Peter drank in the resulting sight: the dusting of gingery hair, the lush curve of his belly. He squeezed Martin’s waist, enjoying the softness under his hands.

“Beautiful boy,” he murmured.

“Peter—” Martin said, squirming.

Sliding his hands down Martin’s flanks, he slipped his fingers under the waistband of his jeans, drawing a sharp gasp from him. He lowered his hand to rub down the front. The bulge he encountered was rather larger than he expected. It promised great things to come.

What he found under the jeans made him huff a laugh: pastel unicorns on a pink background. Martin flushed and bit his lip.

“Where do you get these? I might need a pair.” he said, squeezing Martin’s arse through the fabric.

“I’ll have them sent to your office,” Martin promised with a crooked smile.

“Excellent.” Peter pulled the pants down over his hips, letting out a low whistle at the sight that greeted him: a lovely thick cock at half mast, the dusky head peeking out of its sheath.

“You’ve been holding out on me,” Peter accused, wrapping his hand around the shaft and making Martin hiss. “I might need to take this for a spin next time.”

Peter preferred to take the lead in sex, but there was something to be said for the enthusiasm of youth. Perhaps he would ride Martin, pinning him down with his weight, trapped and held for Peter’s pleasure as he begged for release. If that wasn’t a pleasing image, he didn’t know what was.

He fixed Martin with a predatory smile. “But it’s your mouth and arse that have driven me to distraction, and I’ve already had your lovely mouth. Get down on the bed.”

Peter was right: Martin was especially tempting lying prone over Peter’s enormous four poster bed, head turned to look over his shoulder, looking for his approval. Peter licked his lips as he undressed, fascinated by the ripe curve of Martin’s buttocks. As much as he enjoyed Elias, the man had no arse to speak of; Martin’s was a veritable buffet.

He leaned down to kiss Martin’s ankle, then his calf. His legs were surprisingly muscular. He recalled Martin mentioning the long walk to the tube station. Perhaps Peter could have him moved closer, handier to the Institute and to Peter’s own bed. Peter could pick the furnishings himself. He smiled as he worked his way up Martin’s thighs, biting and kissing and reveling in the sweet gasps he made.

“P-peter,” Martin said pleadingly, spreading his legs.

Peter slid his hands up to cup Martin’s cheeks, kneading them, spreading them open to reveal the furled pink skin of his hole. He leaned down, blowing gently, and Martin shivered.

Pulling back, he slapped one cheek, just hard enough to sting, enjoying the sharp noise and the pink flush it brought to his skin. Martin yelped and ground down into the mattress.

“Do you like it rough, love? I could spank that sweet arse of yours until you scream.” He rubbed one hand soothingly over the pink flesh, then pinched it hard.

“Oh, god,” Martin panted, burying his face in the pillow. He pushed his hips up into Peter’s hands.

“That’s not an answer,” Peter admonished.

“God, _anything,_ just touch me,” Martin begged.

Taking a moment to stuff a pillow under Martin’s hips, Peter settled in to enjoy his feast. He raked his nails down the smooth cheeks, following the dark pink trails with his tongue. Martin groaned loudly. When Peter finally licked and kissed his way to his sweet pink hole, Martin _sobbed._

Peter lapped gently at Martin’s hole, hands roaming his body, squeezing his cheeks, stroking his sweat-damp spine. He savored the clench of the tight muscle on his tongue, teasing it into submission until it was as soft and pliant as the rest of Martin.

“F-fuck, Peter, _please—_ ”

He reached under the pillow to grasp Martin’s stiff cock, making him groan and bite his lip.

“I wonder if your come tastes as sweet as the rest of you,” Peter mused. Martin let out a low whine, thrashing against the covers.

“Turn over, lad,” he ordered, rolling Martin onto his back. He kissed him soundly, enjoying the way Martin sighed and relaxed into the kiss. He stroked Martin’s cock gently.

“I could eat you up,” he growled, nipping at his lips. He tightened his grip on Martin’s cock, massaging the head with his thumb. The skin was velvety smooth, damp with need, and Martin made the most delectable noises for him.

“God, Peter, I’m going to—to—”

“Do it,” Peter commanded, and Martin cried out, spilling obediently over his fingers. Peter worked him through the last of the shocks, until Martin mewled and squirmed away.

Martin’s eyes held his as Peter lifted his hand to his mouth and licked it clean. Martin groaned at the sight, blushing deeply.

“What a good lad you are,” Peter praised, stroking Martin’s face and hair. Martin leaned into the touch like the affection-starved thing he was. It put Peter in mind of the cats that used to roam his childhood estate. Feral things, and rightfully wary of his family, but every once in a while they would come up to him for a good scratch.

Peter leaned down to kiss his mouth, sharing the bitter taste on his tongue. His hand slid down to stroke Martin’s spit-slick hole, testing the muscle with his thumb. Martin groaned and spread his legs.

“Hungry thing,” Peter purred, reaching into the drawer for a bottle of lubricant. He drizzled it over Martin’s crack, watching him hiss and squirm at the coolness.

“There, there,” he soothed, stroking wet fingers over his tight hole. The smooth muscle gave way instantly, accepting the tips of his first two fingers as he stroked him from the inside.

Peter kissed him again, lazily, as he worked his fingers in. It was easy to give himself up to the slide of their lips and tongues, the warmth of their bodies pressed together, the greedy clutch of Martin’s hole.

“You’re still dressed,” Martin complained. He nipped at Peter’s lower lip before soothing it with a kiss.

“Looking to get an eyeful, are we? Get to work, then.”

Martin’s hands went to his collar, opening the buttons with a charming clumsiness. His eyes widened as he took in the expanse of tattooed skin and scars.

“Can I…?” Martin trailed off, bending to kiss the compass rose inked on his chest. A shiver went through him as he ran his hands over Peter’s torso. It seemed someone had a fetish.

Peter had amassed quite the collection over the years, and Martin touched and kissed them all: the naval star on his biceps; the bright swallows on either side of his chest; the broad-hipped siren on his forearm. Peter shed his trousers to reveal the massive kraken wrapped around his thighs, ending in a burst of froth on his hip.

“Did they—hurt?” Martin asked. His lips skimmed the siren’s fins along his wrist.

Peter chuckled. “Some of them more than others. That’s half the point.”

Pushing Martin back against the pillows, Peter kissed him and slid his hand down to tease his arse. Martin’s hole was still slick with lube, and he took his fingers with a deep sigh of relief.

“Bet you take it like a champ,” Peter murmured, nipping at his throat. Martin gasped and tightened around his fingers. “I can’t wait to fuck you good and proper. You’re going to be so _good_ for me, aren’t you?”

He punctuated his question with a twist of his fingers that made Martin mewl. “I asked you a question.”

Martin flushed, squirming around his fingers. “I—yes! I’ll be _—fuck—_ good— _”_

Peter dripped more lube over his hand, slipping another finger into his tight hole. Martin groaned and threw his head back, biting his lip raw.

“Condoms?” Martin panted.

With his free hand, Peter reached into the drawer, pulling out a strip of johnnies with a flourish. “Help an old man out, will you?”

Even in his desperation, Martin couldn’t help but roll his eyes as he opened one of the plastic packets. His hands shook as he smoothed the condom over Peter’s cock. Peter pulled his fingers out to slather himself with lube as Martin laid back, thighs spread, face awash with nervous anticipation.

Peter lined himself up and stared down at Martin for a long moment, drinking in the sight of him: round cheeks flushed, dark curls tangled around his face, eyes hazy with need. He rubbed the head of his cock in slow circles around Martin’s hole until he whimpered.

When Peter finally sank in, slowly and carefully, Martin clutched at his shoulders like a lifeline, making soft, broken little noises. Peter kissed his trembling lips as he paused to savor the tight heat around him.

“Lovely boy,” Peter murmured, stroking his cheek. Martin leaned into the touch, lips brushing against his palm.

Then Peter pulled his hips back, and sank in again. Martin cried out and gripped him tighter, tight enough to bruise. His legs wrapped around Peter’s back, dragging him closer, before Peter pulled out again.

“I was right,” Peter whispered harshly. “You _do_ take it well.”

Martin groaned and pulled him back in again, shameless in his need. Peter kissed everything he could reach: his mouth, his throat, his chest, as they writhed and clutched at each other. Martin was soft and yielding and endlessly hungry, grasping at Peter with his mouth and his limbs and his tight arse.

“I should have you at my desk,” Peter growled, picking up speed and forcing himself deeper. “I should have you in front of others, so they can know you’re mine, and envy me. I should keep you chained right here to this bed, waiting for my cock like a good little whore—”

 _“God,_ Peter,” Martin whimpered. “I need— _more—”_

Sensing what he needed, Peter pulled out, rolling them over so Martin was straddling his lap. Martin moaned at the loss, but he got over it when Peter guided him to sink down on his cock, deeper than before. Martin was a warm weight against his skin, anchoring him.

“You’re so deep,” Martin groaned. “God, I can’t—”

“You can,” Peter told him, stroking his hips. “And you will.”

Martin hesitated at first, lifting himself just an inch or so before sliding back down, before he got his rhythm. Peter shifted, hitting his sweet spot, and Martin gasped and clapped a hand over his mouth. Peter pulled it aside, kissing him deeply.

From there they worked together, Peter lifting Martin by the hips and Martin slamming himself down, grinding down on his cock. Peter could see and touch everything he wanted, laying claim to every inch of freckled skin in sight as Martin used his cock to get off.

Peter loved it: the slickness, the pressure, the heat in Martin’s eyes. He found himself approaching climax faster than he expected, and he reached out to grasp Martin’s cock, making him cry out.

“Needy little slut,” Peter growled, gripping him tightly. “I want to watch you come with my prick in you. I want to fuck you through it, until you’re too sensitive to stand it, and then I’ll fuck you some more. I’ll—”

_“Peter—”_

Martin moaned and ground down one last time before his body spasmed, clutching Peter with his arms and legs, gripping his cock like a vice as he came all over Peter’s fist. Peter made good on his promise, thrusting up into Martin’s shuddering body, drawing tiny, desperate noises from his throat.

When Martin had no more to give him, Peter rolled them back over. Martin’s breath came in breathy little whimpers as Peter hitched his legs over his arms and fucked into him again, hard and fast, until his own orgasm took him.

 _“Fuck,_ lad,” Peter murmured against Martin’s chest. “That was…”

Martin laughed a bit breathlessly, wrapping Peter in his arms. Peter could hear his heart pounding as the adrenaline faded, bathing them in the afterglow. It felt good: the warm, satisfied boy wrapped around him, with Peter’s cock softening inside him. He wanted to keep Martin pinned beneath him forever, or at least until he was up for another round. He considered calling in for the both of them tomorrow, so he could enjoy his assistant without interruptions.

Underneath the glow, however, was a screaming _wrongness._ Martin’s softness was alien to him, an attack on everything Peter stood for. He should dismiss Martin at once, before his warmth sank in too deeply. His hands clenched on Martin’s shoulders, prepared to do just that, when Martin spoke.

“I should probably go.”

Peter pulled out, ignoring the pained wince from Martin, and rolled onto his side to look at him.

“Is that so?” he asked.

“Yeah.” Martin flushed. “Though thanks for the—you know. Thanks.”

As Peter watched, Martin got up to find his clothing, dressing awkwardly, with his eyes on the floor. He used his pants to wipe the come from his belly and thighs before stuffing them in his pocket.

“Happy birthday,” he said, sparing Peter a shy glance.  

“Thank you, Martin,” Peter said coolly.

Once Martin was gone, Peter padded into the sitting room, taking a swig of wine from the bottle, though it had gone warm. It still went well with the cake. He wondered what Elias must think, and laughed to himself.

He wasn’t sure who’d won this round, but he knew who would win the next.

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you've enjoyed this fic and/or would like to see another sequel, let me know!


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